


What I See in You

by irisbleufic



Category: Hot Fuzz (2007)
Genre: Body Worship, Love and Lust, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-01
Updated: 2008-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:06:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody seems to look at Nicholas—<i>or</i> Danny—as the sum of his parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I See in You

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in December of 2008.

**Eye of the Beholder**

What bothers Danny most is that nobody seems to look at Nicholas as the sum of his parts. They're always isolating some abstract feature, usually a negative one, and subjecting it to brutal, unflattering scrutiny. As for his _physical_ features, that's another matter. They're always isolating something and subjecting it to merciless leering. And while Nicholas is a generally attractive bloke, sure, it burns Danny up to seem him taken for granted, because those twats don't even grasp the half of _why_.

Take his arse, for example, so profanely harped upon by those NWA hags with walkie-talkies. Does anybody as eyes it in passing (and that's a _lot_ of middle-aged biddies, not just homicidal psychopathic ones) really have any idea of its worth beyond the visual manifestation of being nicely shaped? Danny should hope not, for that would mean they'd found a means of ascertaining its three-dimensional virtues, and for him, those transcend mere visuals. There's the permanent indentation it's left on his couch, for one: that particular cushion wouldn't be the same if _his_ arse had remained the only one beating it into comfy submission. There's also the way it fits his grasp perfectly, but that's another story, and this is an invective against objectification.

While he's in the neighborhood, it's probably worth pointing out Nicholas's thighs, too. _Those_ go on show every bloody morning when the weather's warm, heaven knows, and although the biddies don't dare whisper about that—what makes them slightly risqué to members of their age bracket, Danny is sure he can guess—they form another pretty picture with value beyond ogling. They're good for jumping fences, chasing swans, supporting clipboards, balancing plates, and keeping Danny's own legs warm when they happen to be all tangled together on cold nights, thank you very much. There's also the fact that having them wrapped around his hips makes him feel like a complete and utter sex god, but that's not the point.

What about Nicholas's hands? They're fascinatingly precise, and wouldn't ladies of a certain age find some kind of prudish, Victorian thrill in tittering about _that_? Danny is amazed at how difficult it is to make out the knife-scar, which has led to the formulation of his theory that Nicholas has mutant healing abilities. What's more, they become curiously arresting when taken out of context. It's one thing to see them obliterating paperwork or working a steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, and quite another to watch them watering a peace lily, mister poised just _so_ , fingertips skimming over delicate leaves with frightening care. And they can do the washing-up like nobody's business: why resort to steel wool when the force one can put behind a dishrag is more than sufficient to cut through grease? Nicholas's hands are _thorough_ , in no case more exemplary than when they stroke through Danny's hair or work a knot out of his back. He can think of other tasks in which they're thorough, too, but this is, after all, about the prudish, Victorian thrill of implication.

It's fortunate that no one gossips about Nicholas's arms, Danny supposes, as he feels particularly possessive of them. Although they spent a goodly amount of time pushing him away at the outset, he'd eventually proved to them that he was something around which they ought to consider wrapping. And Nicholas, when taken as the sum of his parts and given a proper chance, was no fool—and saw to it that they finally _did_.

 

**Staring Right Back**

What bothers Nicholas most about the subject of physical attractiveness requirements in one's partner is that no one seems to believe him when he says he hasn't _got_ any, not as such. Given that all human beings are different, shouldn't that be assessed on a case-by-case basis? Most of the time, his colleagues are content to get a good laugh out of it and call him too private for his own good. Giving concrete examples had only ever made the situation worse, because Janine had been, apparently, one of those rare human beings considered almost universally attractive. Nobody believed that what had drawn him to her hadn't been those clear blue eyes or inhumanly high cheekbones. At the time, it had been some combination of her calm poise and brutal honesty. Wasn't it _normal_ for personality and other invisible characteristics to take first priority? Apparently not, if his colleagues' jibes are to be taken at face value.

It's not to say that Nicholas _hasn't_ got a sense of what's physically attractive to him. Far from it. He'd grown to love Janine for what she was, but when everything else had worn off? So had the chemistry, and he'd found himself back at square one. What he had missed at first wasn't Janine as someone he could hold or kiss or appreciate in an evening dress. What he'd missed was the _idea_ of Janine, and even that, quite frankly, had gone sour. Maybe it was a side-effect of his tendency to overthink.

There are days when Nicholas wonders what the London crowd would make of Danny, but he doesn't dwell on it overmuch. Learning that what they thought wasn't worth a toss had been something of a rude awakening, but now he wouldn't trade it for anything. In fact, he's sure he'd take some sort of sadistic pleasure in their confusion at being told that what had first drawn him to Danny actually _was_ physical—or at least partly so. Danny's at ease with everyone from the very start, provided he likes them well enough. Although Nicholas is aware that Danny perhaps liked him _more_ from the very start than he likes most people, it was those brushes and shoulder-claps and hugs that had broken down Nicholas's wall of icy reserve before he had known it.

And Danny _smiles_ all the time. Why had Nicholas never noticed in anyone _else_ exactly how much a smile could do for him? The first time that Danny had smiled at him and touched him at the same time had been sort of revelatory, in an oh-my-God-I-did- _not_ -just-have-that-thought-whilst-on-duty kind of way. Also, there was the fact that Danny was a bloke, but that wasn't anything about which Nicholas had been particularly shocked. He'd been mildly surprised, though. He'll admit to that much.

Where eyes are concerned, Nicholas is sure that he's _never_ had a preference for color. It's all in the message they get across, or the way that they light up in joy, fear, confusion, or rage. With Danny, it's hardly ever the latter. He gets angry from time to time, maybe even furious on some rare occasions, but he hasn't got the kind of dangerous temper that Nicholas has learned to steer clear of (not least because he's got a bit of one himself). The thing about Danny's eyes is that the light _never leaves_. It shifts and changes with his moods, but Nicholas can only think of a single time when the brightness has faded, and he never wants to experience that again. These days, as spoiled as he is with their abundance of life, putting it out of his mind has got considerably easier. Even in the morning when Danny's only half-conscious and can manage little more than a blink in response to whispered coaxing, the light's there, and it's the most beautiful thing that Nicholas has ever seen.

From there, it's short work to strip off the covers and lavish attention on the rest of him. Nicholas has learned that those strong arms closing around his ribcage means that Danny is more awake than he's willing to let on, and Danny's fingertips always seem to know _exactly_ how far beyond a faint caress to push their tentative skating over Nicholas's shoulder blades. And if one of his colleagues were to ask, doubtless scandalized by now, if he finds chest-hair a turn-off, the answer would be a resounding _no_. It tickles Nicholas's nose with warm Danny-smell as he kisses a line down from nipple to bellybutton, and he wishes there weren't places in which its growth is disturbed by patches of scar tissue. Still, he finds those scars worth every moment of pause he can give them: the press of his palms, the brush of his lips. They mean that Danny's still with him, that he hasn't been dreaming this. And farther down?

All he can hear now is Danny's voice, and that's worth worshipping in its own right.


End file.
